Casey vs Island Hopping
by ms.j
Summary: Even Casey has missions within missions.


Casey vs. Island Hopping (a short one-shot)

by. Ms. J

* * *

><p>The mission within a mission, since he was a fool for accepting the first one, was to occupy his mind with any mind-numbing activity possible to keep from thinking about her tonight. Breaking down his Berretta to the bare metal pieces and reassembling it after cleaning, reviewing the logistics for the official mission at hand, checking his surveillance of his apartment back in Burbank for any signs of criminal activity were just a few of the things John Casey did in the span of two hours.<p>

(Course, any signs of Alex being there alone with the Gnome could be called criminal.)

Casey slammed his laptop shut, leaning back into the couch. The entire hotel suite turned grave quiet.

He downloaded enough layouts of the hotel to take out everyone on the third floor with a single bullet and had all the truffle recipes he could ever think to cook.

Not that their mission called for cooking or unnecessary gunplay but...their mission...he cringed again then shook his head...He wasn't flying solo on this one.

He remembered his conversation with the general:

The mission, since he chose to accept it, was to extract a sensitive piece of data from known terrorist cell in the Bahamas that had been stolen from a biotech laboratory in the States. John Casey suppressed his all-knowing smirk. He could do this in his sleep, wake up, and then hop a few islands over to catch Guns and Ammo Convention 2011 before the next flight back stateside. [Sweeeeet.]

Then General Beckman had added he wouldn't be alone. That produced a slight frown. Who had to tag along? The newly married Bartowskis were somewhere in a luxury Italian villa doing something he rather not think about.

Surely she couldn't mean punishing him by sending Grimes? How badly would he need to kiss the general's feet and pray?

"Actually, I had General Bentley in mind." She unknowingly answered his anxious thoughts by adding this afterthought.

For one millisecond, the detached facade that he was well known for almost faltered. Almost. He was trained to corral his emotions very well. "Bentley?"

"She's familiar with this particular radical group and the area itself. You two will be posing as a married couple on vacation." Then General Beckman's face tensed. "Is there a problem with this?"

[Self, is there a problem with this? The convention has a good raffle this year…] His brain inquired of him. He answered his brain.

[Well, besides, the fact that she's a piss poor sport, argumentative, and looks better than cake in a black dress?]

[Self, the last reason is not a valid one.]

[Okay… I guess you win this round, brain.]

"No problem at all, General."

"Good." General Beckman rewarded him with a smile. "Your flight leaves tomorrow morning."

* * *

><p>The door handle to the suite jiggled, bring him back to reality. He settled on browsing the latest copy of GUNS AND AMMO Monthly, noting that the convention was two days away in Andros.<p>

Jane Bentley stepped into their shared hotel room with an arm full of shopping bags-a perfect cover he figured for a female agent, spending the rest of the evening shopping in Nassau while making contact with her Nassau informants. To casual outsiders, she was just another tourist spending vacation money.

He snaked a glance from behind his raised magazine to see she was still dressed in her swimwear and a pair of heels. He quickly darted his eyes back toward the gun of the month.

Was it possible to make one's self uncomfortable and embarrassed all at once over a micro-bikini?

[It it's not a micro. It's a bandini, you idiot.]

Lesser men couldn't have survived Chinese water torture, being holed up in walls for weeks, and digging out shells out of their own skin.

He was Col. John Casey-solider, NSA agent, sharp-shooter and foodie. He was built for pressure and tense situation.

But, then again, most tense situation didn't have long legs and delicious curves.

"Sorry I came back so late. There was a good sale in town." She asked in a sing-song voice, disappearing near the closets. "Anything new?"

He grunted, nodding his head toward the laptop. "The target's still stationary. Food poisoning. Bad conch."

"Hmm. As long he can make it to the mixer on Friday." She yelled back. He heard her shuffling around, doors opening and slamming, and the sound of the shower turning on.

Their (official) plan was to lift the highly coveted disc from the leader at the limbo party a few nights from now and get it back to Castle ASAP after making a dummy duplicate. The (unofficial) plan was to island hop until time to go home. It was a working vacation.

"We could just break in the room. We're only a few doors down."

"We want this to be neat. I don't want to pick a lock if I don't have too. Besides, his drop should be in attendance also. I managed to lift a guest list from the front desk. Sam was very helpful."

He grunted again. Sam, the front desk clerk? Casey decided to pay Sam a "visit" tomorrow. A small voice in the back of his head scolded him. His mission shouldn't involve getting jealous of any male presence within 12 inches of her.

Nassau's tropical splendor was an ugly step-sister in comparison to chocolate-colored beauty coming out of the clear blue water in a bikini...he frowned, pushing this enjoyable visual from his head. He was doing his usual surveillance when she interrupted it unintentionally.

Casey shook himself. [Get in attention, solider.] He made a mental note to bypass this footage to remain focused.

When he looked up again, he had to swallow lest he had no tongue left.

Jane stood in front of him tying the sash to a satin black robe together.

His brain went blank. [What was the mission again?]

"Colonel?" Did she just purr at him?

"General." He cleared his throat. What was getting caught in there, his words? He already didn't have a lot of words, he was a reserved man by nature.

"Are you well? This mission seems like it has been a little... rough on you the last few days." She folded her arms. "You didn't eat the conch, did you?"

General Bentley was concerned about him? He caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked as pale as the Gnome did. "I did have the buffet."

She smiled. "I think I know what'll cheer you up."

[You minus the robe?] "Shooting someone?"

"Well, besides that." She smirked. "Get some sun tomorrow. That's an order."

"Yes ma'am." He decided not to dwell on how wrong that sounded coming out of his mouth.

"I do have one last order for you."

"Oh?"

"A foot rub. These Jimmy Coos are killing me." She flopped down on the couch next to him, stretching out those same shapely legs over his. In one delicate motion, she snatched a hairpin out of her hair and shook out her deep ebony locks from its restrictive ponytail.

His hands froze in mid-air along with his breathing.

His mission, if a snowball had a chance in Hell, was to survive the wiles of General Jane Bentley for another three days.


End file.
